No Strings Attached
by itsaaudra
Summary: The young author, R.L. Stine, meets his creation, Slappy for the first time. ((Movie!Stine/Movie!Slappy fic))
1. Creation Process

The brisk night air crept through the open window, the beige curtains danced playfully amongst the breeze. The moon was full tonight, its glistening aura peeked through the curtains as they fluttered, shining into the dark and lonely study of the mysterious R.L. Stine. The young author, still in his prime, focused heavily on constructing his newest tale. His thick, dark chestnut hair fell messily onto his wide forehead. He pushed his black-framed glasses further up his nose. His deep brown eyes moved steadily with the type hammer of his Smith-Corona typewriter as his fingers nimbly moved across each key.

 _Tck tck tck_

With every click of the typewriter, the closer he was to finishing his latest work. He was excited to get this manuscript finished. It was only his seventh book, but to him, it was his greatest so far.

R.L. Stine's typewriter was no ordinary typewriter. It was special, both to him and in its own ways. It was an outlet for Stine to create his own friends, to spill out what he was feeling into terrifying ghouls and monsters to terrify children and those who tormented him. He used the monster blood to make his bully's dog grow to the size of a house, the mummy to lurk inside his neighbor's basement and horrify them, and the citizens of Dark Falls to wreak havoc on the citizens of his town. But sadly they became too much to handle, so he had no choice but to create locks and imprison his monsters until he would need them again and reassured them that they will be free again, very, very soon.

However, the monster he was writing at this very moment was much more than a monster. He was someone that Stine could relish in the torment of those who anguished him with. A friend that was a personification of his inner hatred and lust for revenge.

It had been years since Stine connected with real people, and it was finally his chance to connect with someone again.

Stine held his breath as the story reached its twist, his favorite part of any story.

" _'Hey, slave—is that other guy gone?' the dummy asked in a throaty growl. 'I thought he'd never leave!'_ "

The last key clicked as the ink smacked the page. Stine smiled, his brown eyes glistening softly in the light of his desk lamp. He carefully removed the final page of his story and placed it at the bottom of his stack of papers. He reached for the empty manuscript book and grabbed a black pen.

" _Night of the Living Dummy_ ," he read aloud to himself as he scrawled the title on the spine of the book and the front. He smirked as he scrambled together the loose leaf pages of his story and gently attached them to the inside of the cover. Once the pages were securely fastened, he closed the book and inhaled sharply. He knew that he had this amazing gift to create real monsters, but he wasn't sure if it would work every time. He apprehensively gripped the cover of the book, prepared to unleash his newest, most personal creation.

"Let's get you out of there, my friend," Stine whispered to himself as he slowly pried open _Night of the Living Dummy_. He wasn't sure who would emerge from the book, since it was revealed to have two living dummies, both personifications of himself. He supposed it would be a surprise. He didn't want both of them out at once. That would prove to be too much for the poor author.

The lock that Stine secured on every blank manuscript snapped open with a _click_. A blue light emanated from the book, filling the entire room with its glow. He felt a rush of cold air burst from it, causing his skin to erupt in goosebumps. The room flashed wildly, like lightning cracking its way from the clouds and onto the earth. Stine watched as the ink began to crawl off of the pages, beginning to form a shape on the floor. The light was too blinding to see the shape's details, but Stine knew who it was. Once the ink completely bled off of the page, the light began to fade and the gust of wind ceased. The monster was out.

When Stine's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he studied the Ventriloquist's dummy. He had dark, chestnut hair with a widow's peak, just like Stine's. His eyes were a dim brown that shimmered with highlights of green in the moonlight. His smile was wide, with tiny child-like teeth that made his smile even creepier. His face, in some places, was slightly chipped and worn down. He sported a black suit with a bright red flower that accentuated his deep red bowtie. This wasn't the red-headed Mr. Wood. Not at all. This was Slappy. However, there was something rather off about the Slappy that leapt off of the pages. He looked more like Stine than the way he was written, his features complementing his creator's.

Stine looked down at Slappy. There he was. Creation and creator, face to face. But for some reason, Stine wasn't scared like he was with his past few monsters. He was relieved to see a familiar face.


	2. Face to Face

**NottinghamArrow** \- Thanks! But I mean... did you read the description? xD I hope it doesn't turn out too cringy, though. I'm sorry!

"Slappy?" Stine inquired softly. The dummy seemed to pay him no mind as he looked around the room aimlessly and wide-eyed. He looked like a child, discovering a new world for the first time. The dim light of Stine's desk lamp flickered and eventually puttered into darkness. The moonlight came and went, as the wind howled excitedly outside and the curtains swayed just as eagerly. Slappy wandered around the small study, ignoring Stine as if he were invisible, examining the bizarre collection of antiquities and oddities scattered around the room. He picked up a miniature, glass statue of an elephant and studied its intricate detail, letting out a few _hmms_ and _huhs_. He then dropped the statue onto the ground, bored with its existence. It shattered into pieces. Stine's body twanged with shock and irritation as the elephant struck the floor. _That was an expensive statue._

"Slappy," Stine repeated. Slappy fiddled with a snow globe that encased a grim castle. He shook it and watched the snowflakes fall, covering the castle in white pellets. He continued to ignore the author, carefully placing the snow globe back on the shelf.

"Slappy!" Stine called once again, this time with more force. Slappy's head twisted around like a demonic entity, staring Stine in the face. His creepy, soulless eyes burned into his creator's. Stine stepped back a bit.

"Who are you?!" Slappy responded in a spine-tingling, raspy voice that sounded similar to Stine's, only much more high-pitched and disturbing. The rest of Slappy's body turned around to meet his head's placement. It was strange… unlike Dr. Brewer's mutant plants or King Khor Ru, this monster actually talked back to him. It sent shivers down Stine's back.

"I… I'm R.L. Stine!" Stine chuckled, excited and nervous all at once. Slappy was unamused.

"What does the R.L. stand for? REALLY LAME?!" Slappy tossed his head back and laughed. His laugh was nothing like his harsh voice. It was really high and child-like. It was just as evil and bone-chilling as Stine had written it to be.

"No, actually, it-"

"I don't really care what your name stands for, Really Lame Stine," the dummy cut Stine off, still staring up at him. "So, what exactly is this place? It's pretty interesting and extravagant for someone as _lame_ as you."

"Well," Stine started, unsure where he was going. "You're uh, in my study… where I write monster and ghoul and ghost stories… and… w-well…"

"Well what?"

"You're… uh," Stine stuttered, worried of Slappy's reaction to what he was going to say.

"I'm what?! Spit it out already!"

"You're from one of those stories," Stine stated bluntly and immediately inhaled.

The room fell silent, with only the gossips of the wind that skulked into the room as an undertone. Slappy stared blankly at Stine with both brows raised up high. A drop of sweat slipped down Stine's forehead as he awaited a quip or an insult in response. Slappy blinked twice, his eyes still wide with surprise.

The silence was broken, as Slappy let out a hideous cackle that echoed throughout the room. He couldn't stop laughing. He was bent over, holding his nonexistent gut, gasping through laughs. He didn't even need to breathe.

"So," he said through snickers. "So you're tellin' me… That I'm a _fictional_ character from your imagination?"

"Y-yes," Stine coughed, he knew Slappy would act like this.

"HAHAHA! Don't make me laugh! Oh, wait, it's too late for that!" The room went dark briefly as the moon became shrouded in shadows. Slappy disappeared from his position. Stine gulped. _Where could he have gone?_

"Slappy?!" Stine echoed. No response.

The moon's brightness returned, almost as if by magic, flooding the room in its shear luminosity. Stine turned to find Slappy standing on his desk, holding _Night of the Living Dummy_ in his tiny, wooden clutch. Stine jumped in the air, frightened by his own creation.

Slappy studied the manuscript. The title alone made him do a double-take. He started laughing again, only this time less maniacally. It was more of a crazed chuckle. He suddenly let out a bizarre, animalistic growl. He angrily chucked the book onto the floor and twisted to face the opposite direction.

Stine stared down at the book he had just finished. He hoped that Slappy didn't break the lock or anything else in the throw.

"This is some kind of bad joke, right?" Slappy snarled. "I should know, bad jokes are my specialty!"

Stine kept quiet. He didn't want to respond to that.

Slappy peered down at the book again. He uttered a very soft " _heh_ " and then sat down on the desk. His eyelids drooped.

Stine was concerned. He had written Slappy… well, Mr. Wood, whose evil was transferred into Slappy… to be evil, selfish, and power-hungry. But looking at him… it seemed as though Slappy was _powerless_. Stine sighed and ruffled his messy, chestnut hair. He sauntered over to the slumped-over Slappy and took a seat next to him on the desk. The desk shook a little.

"I'm not… _real_ ," Slappy muttered, glaring down at his small wooden fingers. He curled them into fists. "I'm… _not_ … real."

Slappy's body began to tremble. It was as if being real was one of the only things he knew for certain. He hated being wrong.

Stine delicately placed a hand on his back. Slappy stopped trembling.

"Slappy," Stine started. "You ARE real."

"No, I'm not… you said it yourself! I'm nothing but a monster from a book," Slappy barked, avoiding eye contact with Stine.

"You're more than that," Stine said as he began to pat Slappy's back lightly. "You're real to _me_. You're real in this world now. I created you for a reason. You and I… we're both kind of loners aren't we? No real friends or family. Just us. We've been abused and shoved aside, like monsters. You like to hurt people, especially bad people. And, you know something… _bad people have hurt me_."

Stine's voice cracked a bit. Slappy looked up at him, his eyelids still half-shut.

"I brought you into this world so you and I can wreak havoc on this town and all of the real-life monsters that hurt me, and in a fraction, you. I won't let you think of yourself as 'not real.' You're realer than ever, Slappy. You're that part of me that I could never aim to be. That part of me is no longer fiction."

Slappy's eyelids flittered a bit. Stine began to rub small circles into the dummy's cold back. He had never felt so… _not_ alone. He had someone to be friends with. Someone who was a part of himself. Someone he could trust. He couldn't put him back in the book. Never. He had to make that promise. Slappy needed to hear that from him.

"And guess what, Slappy? I promise you, if you stick with me and be who I wrote you to be… you will never go back to the world of fiction ever again."

"Never…?" Slappy's dark eyes lit up.

"Never," Stine smirked. Slappy's smile grew wider. Stine wasn't sure if he could actually make that promise, if things were to get out of hand. But he trusted his judgement. He knew nothing could get too bad with Slappy. And Slappy knew that Stine wouldn't betray him. He's been telling the truth so far, how could he lie?

The two of them had faith in each other.

 _Something that neither of them were used to._


End file.
